Far from this foreign Easter damp and chilly 
My soul steals to a pear-shaped plot of ground, 
Where gleamed the lilac-tinted Easter lily 
Soft-scented in the air for yards around; 

Alone, without a hint of guardian leaf! 
Just like a fragile bell of silver rime, 
It burst the tomb for freedom sweet and brief 
In the young pregnant year at Eastertime; 

And many thought it was a sacred sign, 
And some called it the resurrection flower; 
And I, a pagan, worshiped at its shrine, 
Yielding my heart unto its perfumed power.